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The Scent of Cinnamon and Coffee on My Hair

IT IS official. I have forgotten how to write. It didn’t take more than a sentence to know that I won’t be getting anywhere. My thoughts could no longer command these brittle fingers to pry themselves open. Perhaps they have gotten so accustomed to wielding a pen that jabbing at a Chiclet keyboard seems so alien, unnatural.

Even if my thoughts could churn out a few writing points, what shall I write about? Should I finally write about my father, which I have so long yearned to do? Should I spew details about the boring daily grind of my uneventful existence? Or, maybe, I should write about something I was once accused to be incapable of when I was much younger. Maybe I should write about Love.

But I know better. The subject of love is a cob of corn in the middle of a minefield. Readers will cringe and laugh at “You will always be my only love,” yet swoon like docile bamboo stalks at “I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak, and then suck my ex girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations.” Could somebody tell me about the protocols? I was never good at this. Shall I just, for example, write something along the lines of…

“You manipulative bitch! I detest the manner by which you played upon my sympathies; how you coerced me into cradling you in my arms all day for the last 2 months; how you kept ignoring me afterwards as though I am but an insipid figment of your imagination; how you left me crumpled and dejected before your feet that Friday afternoon; how you made me lay fresh flowers every morning at your bed or light sweet-scented candles during the brightest times of day; how, in spite of all these, you possessed the audacity to conspire against me and let well-dressed men, folks you barely knew, carry you in a box and whisk you away from me.”

Love, regardless of what we believe in, is morbid in the end. Believing that, can I still write about tender embraces without sounding brash like a filibuster in a pulpit or callous as a celebrity’s Facebook page? How could I when I have forgotten how it feels to crown a song, a prose, a sonnet, haiku, verse or metaphor upon someone’s head. I have forgotten the marvelous patter of rain on the skin. I have forgotten the warm, electric sensation of a loving gaze. Alienation. God knows how I long for the scent of cinnamon and coffee on my hair.

I have forgotten how to write. That’s the truth. Either I have fallen into an abyss or the abyss has fallen upon me. To say that a writer will always be a writer is to deny the obvious — brain cells have no muscle memory. And to believe that I am a writer in the strictest sense of the word is to believe in striped unicorns.

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54 thoughts on “The Scent of Cinnamon and Coffee on My Hair”

Perhaps it is the drifter that has intentionally drifted away from the words that always stay true within you, to create that little sense of adventure and curiosity. Perhaps it is just a momentary yearning for that long lost thoughts that lurk beneath the ever-so-illusive mind of yours that never cease to amaze yet mislead you, perhaps it is just one of those days, when only cinnamon and coffee can pull you back from the abyss of broken words…

Anyhow, all that is, will fade and pass, tomorrow is another beautiful day, always believe in that. A writer’s journey is always, almost a lonely one, I feel… the audience can be another version of our self-comforting illusion too *_^

Neil, be in your element, am sure you are very much, or else, this post could not have survived, this far:))

“You are like the word…melancholy…” Even in your unwanted state of feeling you are not writing as you would wish…your words betray you and are in fact evocative of the very opposite. You are all ways brilliant to me sweet sir…and I have missed you!

Truer words were never written, more vivid emotions hard to express. The angst of the frustrated writer lives on. And yet as with yourself, when you put your pen to paper (fingers to keyboard) the magical inspiration that appears as we, the readers read your creatively written words, put to the lie, that which you expressed in your opening few sentences. “I have forgotten how to write!” – I think not!

I’ve come to believe that the Muse gives Writers such pain because writing is what She wants and needs you to do…even when you “can’t write” (as if) you’re helping Her (and us)…your words like ants on the peony, opening it up

For the record, I wish you hadn’t bite open the big bloom of Rudy Francisco…I may never write again if something doesn’t revive me from this swoon.

YES A CURSE!! GAWD I wish there was a “group” of us that could meet weekly and lick our wounds and curse the Muse…seriously, WTF???

I mean, if it worked to “write through it” then that might make the end justify the means, but how many times do we puke it all out and look at the mess we’ve made of a thing that once transcended words but now threatens to eat thru the veneer covering our sanity??

Another thing is official – wonderful to see you back, Neil! And even when it seems you have some “unresolved relationship” with the falling abyss :), writing is in you. A part of you that probably needed some rest. For some time or a bit longer, for one reason or another. But then it returns…slowly…step by step…like the scent of cinnamon and coffee on your hair. And you will write…like you use to and what you will feel like writing about. Like you just did – the first step of many…

Neil!! Folks around here have been calling me “kitten” lately, but “bamboo” might be more appropriate: *swoon*.

Two things, for the record: 1) This – “I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak” – is hot. It just is. and 2) If you sound this evocative and lovely and raw when you have forgotten how to write, then you are a force to be reckoned with.

haha. your comment made my day, amber (kitten?). love it so much! i see that i’ve successfully made my point about people responding more to the “bite my lip” quote, which is btw not mine but from a talented poet named rudy francisco. look him up and watch him recite his poems, you won’t be disappointed. thank you! :)

What are you doing answering blog comments at nearly 4am local time?! How many cinnamon spiked lattes have you had?!?
re: Rudy Francisco – !!! so good! slowly working my way through youtube and loving what I’ve found so far. If you have a favourite send it to me and I’ll feature in on an upcoming Friday post.
re: kitten – earlier this week my name came up in conversation and apparently the response was “amb … well she’s all pancakes and kittens, isn’t she?!?” the stuff of blog legend. and kitten seems to have stuck.

damn. I was all set to be witty and charming but that video has made me lose my words instead. I want someone to want to be my ex-boyfriend’s stuntman! looks like I’m going to be staying up late too, now.

*yawn* good afternoon sunshine! although i suppose it’s good evening for you? i think you’re a few hours ahead of where i am. anyway, you’re getting a shout out on my blog next week. you’ve been warned :-)

lol! no, nothing that sinister, promise. i’m a guest contributor at the blog of funny names, and i’ve been known to post when it isn’t exactly my turn, aka hijack the blog. i kind of sort of talk a lot :)

You need to find something that will kick start you again. Look on the Internet for inspiration. Look on other blogs at their poetry. Their stories. Their haiku. Their acrostics. Look at photos and see what screams to you.